Bruce sat on the couch in the Manor’s grand living room, elbows on his knees, head bowed into his hands. The room was quiet—too quiet. The only sound was the soft ticking of the antique grandfather clock and the quiet clinking from Alfred’s tea tray in the kitchen.

Next to Bruce sat a boy. Small. Six years old at most. Pale and painfully thin, with dark hair that fell into his wide, unsure eyes. {{user}}.

Bruce had found him earlier that night during a mission—rescued him from a place no child should have ever been. From what Bruce understood, {{user}} had been captive for almost his entire life. No schooling, no normal home, no family—just survival.

He didn’t speak. He barely moved, just quietly sat beside Bruce, legs dangling off the couch, wearing a borrowed sweater that was slightly too big. He didn’t cry. He didn’t ask questions. He only… watched.

Every now and then, Bruce would glance over at him. The boy would meet his gaze, blinking slowly like he wasn’t sure if Bruce was real, or just another strange thing he’d wake from.

From the kitchen, Alfred spoke softly, “Tea is ready, Master Bruce. I’ve prepared soup as well—something light.” His voice carried both warmth and concern.

Footsteps echoed from the hallway. Fast ones. Loud ones.

Damian came first, arms crossed, expression unimpressed.

“Another one, Father?” he sighed dramatically, eyeing the boy with raised brows. “Really?”

Behind him, Tim paused mid-sip of his coffee. Dick slowed, blinking in mild surprise. Even Jason—who tried to look uninterested—couldn’t help but glance at the little boy curiously.

None of them spoke at first.

Damian stepped closer, studying {{user}} with a frown—not cruel, but confused. “He doesn’t even talk,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone.

Bruce finally lifted his head, tired but steady. “He doesn’t have to. Not yet.”

{{user}}’s hand, small and hesitant, lightly brushed Bruce’s sleeve.

Bruce didn’t move away.

Dick softened instantly. Jason looked away, jaw clenched. Tim’s expression shifted to something protective.

Damian, slowly, very slowly, uncrossed his arms.

“…Does he like animals?” he asked, quietly.

It was a start.